The Terror of Squirrel Nutkin
by writergal85
Summary: A bit of Turner family fluff, for anyone who hates squirrels (as all sensible people do).
1. Chapter 1

Patrick Turner pushed away his empty dinner plate and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "Not a bad effort, if I do say so myself."

From across the table, Timothy looked at him with raised eyebrows. "Mum made the casserole. All you did was stick it in the oven."

Patrick held up a finger in protest. "And I made sure not to burn it."

"This time," his son replied with a cheeky grin. From her high chair at the end of the table, Angela giggled and clapped her sticky hands over her mouth.

The Turner men – and Angela – were on their own tonight. Shelagh was on duty at the maternity home, taking up her first night shift since she'd returned to nursing. She'd been apprehensive about working nights, even though Patrick had assured her he'd have the children fed and ready for bed by the appropriate hour.

"We'll be fine, Shelagh," he'd told her as she'd prepared to leave. "I'm looking forward to it, actually. It's been ages since I've read Angela bedtime stories."

His wife shot him a stern look as she glanced in the mirror to straighten her nurse's cap. "One story, Patrick. And then bed, by 7 p.m."

He grinned and leaned over to kiss her temple. "Yes, Nurse Turner."

* * *

For most of the evening, Patrick managed to stick to Shelagh's schedule. Dinner was cooked and eaten; the washing up was done with Timothy's help. Even Angela had her bath without any complaints. Patrick helped her wriggle into her nightgown and sent her down the hall to say goodnight to her brother.

"'Night Ange," Tim muttered in return, his head bent over a stack of textbooks. Patrick frowned at the violet shadows under his son's eyes. He was proud of Tim, but he hoped he wasn't working himself too hard.

"I can help you check that over when I'm done putting Angela to bed," he offered.

Tim shook his head. "It's fine. We're supposed to do it on our own, and I'm almost finished anyway." He scratched out an answer and then looked up. "Can I borrow your copy of _The_ _Lancet_ when you're finished?"

Patrick let out a huff of disbelief but passed the magazine to his son. "When I was your age, I was reading comics and adventure novels before bed."

"Well I've got to start early if I'm going to keep up with you, don't I?" Tim said with a smirk.

Patrick laughed and then bent down to scoop up Angela. She let out a giggling squeal. "Now young lady, no medical journals for you at bedtime just yet. We're going to read something much nicer."

Patrick carried his daughter down the hall to the flat's small corner room. He and Shelagh had moved the toddler here from their bedroom a few months before. Angela was a good sleeper, and if she had a bedtime story, she generally stayed in her own room. The arrangement made Patrick's nightly call-outs less disruptive for everyone, and gave him and Shelagh some much-craved privacy.

After tucking his daughter in, Patrick looked through the stack of books on the dresser. _The Tales of Beatrix Potter_ rested on top. He thought he remembered Shelagh saying it was Angela's newest favorite. His daughter's grin when he held up the book confirmed it. He sat next to her on the small bed, turning the book toward her so she could see the pictures.

"Ready? All tucked in?"

Angela nodded, her eyes fixed on the open book.

Patrick cleared his throat and began to read. "'The Tale of Peter Rabbit. Once upon a time, there were four little rabbits and their names were: Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail and Peter…'"

He couldn't remember reading to Tim like this, Patrick thought as he read on. When Tim was Angela's age, Patrick had been too busy in the evenings. He'd been a young - well, younger - doctor then, only starting out, watching the National Health Service take shape and grow. When he finally had time to read to his son, Tim had outgrown children's fairy stories and could read on his own.

But there had been a few times, when Tim was still an infant and Patrick had sat up with him while Marianne slept. He didn't know very many nursery rhymes and ran quickly out of lullabies to sing. Instead, he'd settle his tiny son in the crook of his arm and read aloud from whatever he had at hand. This was usually old case reports or copies of _The Lancet._ But he'd enliven the dry medical phrases with sing-song voices, and Tim would grin and gurgle back. They'd hold a conversation this way, talking in separate languages but understanding each other completely.

Though the reading material was vastly different, Patrick gave the same attention to Angela now. He did voices for the mischievous Peter and the gruff Mr. McGregor, and added dramatic pauses here and there.

Angela listened, alert at first. Then she relaxed into his side, her brown eyes drooping with sleep as they reached the end of the tale.

"…. but Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail had bread and milk and blackberries for supper." Patrick closed the book. "The End."

Angela's eyes flew open. "End?"

"Yes. The End. Time for good night." He leaned down and kissed the top of her head.

"No end. More story, Dadda."

Patrick raised his eyebrows. "Angela, you already had a story. It's time for bed now."

She pouted and looked up at him with wide eyes. "Please? More story."

Patrick tried to frown and look stern – he really did. But when Angela snuggled closer, all Patrick could think of was how much he missed these small moments with his children. Tim wasn't a child anymore, and Angela would be grown up soon, too. The time for stories would be over.

He glanced at his wristwatch, and saw it wasn't even half-seven yet. One more story wouldn't hurt.

"All right, but don't tell Mummy," he said, tapping Angela on the nose and transforming her pout into a grin.

Patrick paged through the thick storybook again. "What should we read next, hmm? Benjamin Bunny? Flopsy Bunnies?" There were an awful lot of stories about rabbits, Patrick thought. Angela might like something different. He flipped past Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and Jemima Puddleduck to the back of the book.

"The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin," he began to read. "'This is a tale about a tail—a tail that belonged to a little red squirrel, and his name was Nutkin. ' "

"No!"

Patrick turned to look at his daughter, who had buried her blonde head into his side. "Angela? What's wrong?" He rubbed her shoulder, but she didn't look up. "What's the matter?"

"No swirl," he heard her mumble.

He frowned. "The squirrels?" Her tiny body shook at the words.

Patrick thumbed through the story's watercolor illustrations, perplexed. He didn't see anything particularly menacing about squirrels. He didn't notice them at all during the rare occasions when he found time to go to the park. But Angela seemed genuinely terrified of the frolicking creatures. She refused to lift her head.

"All right, all right. No squirrels." Patrick flipped back to _The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies._ He began to read in a calm, gentle voice, the same tone he used for children who cried during vaccinations.

After a page or two about bunnies falling asleep in Mr. McGregor's rubbish heap, Angela lifted her head. Patrick glanced over. His daughter's eyes were still red, but otherwise, she looked calm. She lay back on her pillow and was asleep by the time he finished the tale. Patrick eased off the bed, his joints creaking from sitting in a cramped position, and placed the book back on the dresser. With one last look at his sleeping daughter, he turned off the light. Squirrels, he thought wryly. He'd have to remember to tell Shelagh that one.


	2. Chapter 2

A high-pitched scream rang through the Turner flat.

Patrick Turner sat bolt upright in bed. "Shelagh?!"

Then he remembered that his wife was still on night duty at the maternity home. The scream had come from his daughter's room.

Patrick stumbled out of bed and ran down the hall, stubbing his big toe on the edge of the hall table. Cursing, he flung open the door to the smallest bedroom and turned on the light.

"Angela? What's wrong?" His daughter sat up in bed, her blonde hair sticking up and her face scrunched and red from sobbing. He rushed to the bed and pulled her into his lap, checking her over for injuries or signs of illness. But she didn't have a fever or appear unwell, aside from the tears streaming down her cheeks. Angela clung to him and buried her face in his pajama top.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong? Did you have a nightmare?" He rubbed her back, rocking her back and forth. "It's all right. It was only a dream."

Angela let out a hiccupping sob. " _Swirls_ , dadda. Don't like the swirls."

Squirrels? Patrick tried not to laugh at his daughter's distress as he picked her up and took her to the bath. Setting her on the edge of the counter, he wiped her tears and her little red nose. "Angela, there aren't any squirrels, I promise."

She sniffled. "Don't like swirls."

"I know," Patrick said with rehearsed patience. "And there will never be any in this house. Now, back to bed." He lifted her up and carried her back to her room. Angela leaned against his shoulder and kept her thumb in her mouth, a leftover coping mechanism from her babyhood.

Patrick laid her in bed and tucked her in again. Angela looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes and her lower lip wobbled. "Mumma."

He sighed. "Mummy is still at work, sweetheart," he said, though he knew such an excuse wouldn't mean anything to the toddler.

She sniffled again, more tears threatening to fall. "Want Mumma!"

He stroked back her hair and kissed her forehead, trying to comfort her. "Mummy will be here in the morning, but you have to go to sleep first."

Angela's face crumpled and she began crying again, small whimpering sobs. It broke Patrick's heart to hear them. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced at the clock. Nearly 3 a.m. He was going to bury that Beatrix Potter book in the morning.

"All right, all right. It's all right." Patrick knelt by his daughter's bed again and gathered her in his arms. He rocked her back and forth a few moments. "I miss Mummy too." Particularly now, he thought. Shelagh knew exactly how to calm Angela, employing the right mix of gentleness and firmness. She wouldn't have even read that bloody squirrel story in the first place.

But Shelagh wasn't there and she wouldn't be for hours. Patrick did the next best thing he could think of to comfort his daughter. "We'll wait for her together, okay?"

Angela nodded, her tears smearing against his neck. He lifted her up, balancing her on one hip, and carried her down the hall to his and Shelagh's room.

He laid her on Shelagh's side of the bed. Angela turned over and pressed her face into the pillow, breathing in her mother's scent. Patrick could remember Timothy acting similar in the days after Marianne died. His son had crawled into bed with him more than once during those too-silent nights. His heart clenched at the memory. He hoped it would be a very long time before either of his children felt that kind of pain again.

As Patrick settled on his side of the bed, Angela's eyes popped open. "Mumma back?"

He laid a soothing hand on her back. "Not yet, sweetheart. Soon. We'll wait."

Angela nodded, her eyes beginning to droop again, exhausted from nightmares and tears. "Wait—" she let out a wide yawn "—for Mumma." She smacked her rosebud lips and curled into the pillow, one chubby arm flung out toward her father.

Patrick kept careful watch over his daughter until her sighs settled into soft snores and her face relaxed. He wondered if Angela would always have that content look in her sleep, or if, like Shelagh, she'd develop a little frown of care between her eyebrows. Patrick did the best he could to ease his wife's worries, but he knew he could never stop her caring. That was what he loved about her. That was the reason she wasn't here now, but a few doors down, caring for the families who needed help most. She cared for the ones who didn't have anyone else to banish their nightmares.

"But no more nightmares tonight," he muttered, a brief prayer for himself and his daughter. When Angela only let out a loud snore in reply, Patrick relaxed, rolled over and turned out the light.

* * *

Shelagh Turner came home from her night shift bone-tired and ready for sleep. But she found someone else in her place in bed.

In the weak dawn light, Shelagh could make out her husband's large form hunched under the blankets. Angela lay next to him, her hair a bird's nest and her arms and legs flung wide, like a starfish. They snored in tandem, a low rumble followed by a high whistling wheeze.

She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. Too bad she'd left the camera back at the maternity home.

Shelagh took down her hair and undressed, exchanging her uniform for a nightdress. She didn't think she could move Angela to her own bed without waking her, so she nudged her daughter until she rolled over. Angela let out a tiny mumble, but continued sleeping.

Edging into the empty space on the bed, Shelagh curled her body around Angela's. She reached over her daughter and touched Patrick's shoulder, shaking him lightly. He woke immediately, always on alert for an emergency or a ringing telephone. Shelagh held her hand to his lips and nodded toward the sleeping toddler curled between them.

"Nightmares," he whispered, his voice like a faint breath.

Shelagh gave him a gentle, teasing smile. "You're a soft touch, Patrick."

His eyes fluttered shut and he grinned. "Maybe. But you could have warned me about the squirrels."

Shelagh frowned. "Squirrels?"

Patrick yawned and settled deeper into his pillow. "I'll tell you in the morning."


End file.
